


Where the Wind Blows

by tres_mechante



Category: Mary Poppins (1964), Mary Poppins - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Magic, Reunion, Romance, older not dead (promptathon)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:36:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tres_mechante/pseuds/tres_mechante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been more than 20 years since they’d said goodbye. One snowy London day, she came back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Wind Blows

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Older Not Dead on livejournal. 
> 
> Never did I imagine writing Mary Poppins, but the prompt [One snowy London day she comes back for him] grabbed my attention and would not let go. 
> 
> There is no sex, not kink, no darkness in this. There is a bit of angst but a happy ending. This is Mary Poppins, and there is no way I could write anything other than a happy/hopeful ending.

It happened whenever the wind changed, whether east to west or north to south or any anything in between. Without fail, he begins imagining her comings and goings, the silly shoes, talking parrot umbrella and those lovely magical adventures. He remembers the last time he saw her, floating away towards her next family, his words trailing after her; “Goodbye, Mary Poppins, don’t stay away too long…” 

Whenever the wind changed, his heart broke just that little bit more. He hasn’t seen her in… well, the Banks kiddies were all grown up now, weren't they, Michael and Jane now parents in their own rights.

Bert sighed heavily, thinking how much had changed since that fateful morning, most of it good, some bad – all unexpected.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir."

He started at the interruption, but managed a smile as he stood to greet the maid hesitating at the door to his sitting room. "Ah, Lizzie. I didn't hear you come in." He almost winced at his posh accent.

She lifted the tray in her hands a bit higher. "Your tea, sir." She glared when he waved her away. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid you must."

"Oh, I must, must I?" he asked, amused and more than a bit bemused at the young maid's attitude.

"Yes sir. Cook said you missed breakfast and had only a cup of broth at midday." She finished arranging the tea pot, cup, and food on the table and stepped back. "You are to finish every last bite, or I'll let Cook have at you."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want that," said Bert, grinning at Lizzie's solemn threat. In truth, Cook was quite formidable, although could usually charm her out of her moods.

His smile slid away once he was alone again. Leaving the offering untouched, he returned to his chair by the window, wrapping himself in a blanket as he contemplated the swirly flakes dancing outside his window. 

An odd restlessness seemed to have taken hold of him these past few days. Part of him longed to be out on the street once more –chimney sweep, screever, or street seller, it didn't matter – although the truth was his old bones weren't quite up to the life anymore. 

And speaking of old bones, thought Bert, shifting in his seat yet again in an attempt to ease the aches. Getting comfortable was proving to be something of a challenge this afternoon. It was while he was resettling himself that he saw it; a shadow moving across the wall. When it stopped beside him, Bert was certain his own heart stopped with it.

He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for a moment, pulling out a small piece of chalk. His voice once more slipping into Cockney cadence, he said, "'ello, 'ello…I'd know that sil-you-ette anywhere." And he proceeded to trace the silhouette on the wall. "Mary Poppins," he sighed, turning to face the silhouette's owner.

"Hello, Bert."

"You are a sight for sore eyes," he said. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Everyone changes," she said, pulling off her hat and unbuttoning her overcoat. She patted at her hair for a moment before turning to the table. "Tea is cold."

"Ah, well--"

"Never mind, I'll share mine."

He watched in delight as she hefted her carpet bag onto the chair and reached inside – deep inside – to retrieve a teapot. He had no doubt it was a fabulous blend of tea and would be the perfect temperature. Mary Poppins would accept nothing less.

He joined her at the table and they sipped tea and nibbled biscuits in a silence that hovered somewhere between comfortable and terribly awkward. To his surprise, it was Mary spoke first.

"You've done well for yourself," she said, looking around the well-appointed room. "This is quite a step up from doing odd jobs."

"Still doing odd jobs, truth be told. But these days they are more financial than physical." Bert sat back and watched his old friend, trying to gain a sense of her thoughts – never an easy task at the best of times.

"I was sorry to hear of your father's passing," she said. "I wanted to attend the funeral, but…"

"You would have been welcome, more than welcome," he said. "But I understand your obligations."

Silence reigned for a few minutes.

She gestured vaguely to their surroundings and ventured, "I gather you reconciled with your father."

"Eventually. I returned home after he'd taken ill – oh, about three, perhaps four years after you left the Banks family." He fiddled with his cup. "I offered to help out with running the estate and before I knew it I was running everything."

"He must have been pleased to have you home again." Mary placed her cup carefully on the saucer and folded her hands on her lap.

"The prodigal son returned to the fold, you mean?" Bert's cup clattered against the saucer. "He understood back then, even if he didn’t accept it, that I would never be the son, the heir he wanted."

"Bert--"

"Too much like me mum, I was – what you might call a free spirit. As a matter--"

Mary's agitated "Stop it Bert!" cut him off.

"That's probably why he didn't kick up too much of a fuss when I set out on my own. I was the image of my mother and it cut him to the quick to look at me, to see the…the ghost, I suppose, of the woman who'd died bringing me into the world. Just quietly told me not to come back." He smiled sadly, lost in thought. "I was going to show him, come to the city and prove my worth."

She reached across the table and rested warm fingers against his suddenly cold hand. "Which you did, Bert. You grew into a fine, loving, honourable man." She squeezed his hand briefly. "A man any father would be proud to claim as his own."

"He was horrified, you know, the life I'd been living – the people who'd taken me in as one of their own," he mused. "I thought it was because of the less than genteel life I'd lived, but…turns out he was ashamed, if you can imagine, ashamed that people he'd looked down on were the ones to care about me, as family should, when he'd cast me out."

"Oh, Bert…"

"Now, none of that. We made up in the end; that's what counts after all. All is as it ought to be." He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'm doing well, Mary, I promise. I'm not exactly alone, you know."

Mary stood and began tidying the table. "I know. You still see Jane and Michael and their families. I understand all the children adore their Uncle Bert."

He could not stop the fond smile at the mention of the Banks and O'Reilly children. "They are a delight, especially young Mike – a regular scamp, he is."

“You should have had a family of your own,” she said, never quite meeting his eyes. “A man in your position needs to have an heir, someone to...”

“Carry on the family line?” he snapped. Something in her assertion made him feel a bit snippy. “I have a first cousin – of the same name as my own – waiting in the wings to take on the mantle of patriarch. And he has four –no, five – sons to follow in our illustrative footsteps.”

Mary set down the dishes she’d gathered with an uncharacteristic clatter. “That’s not what I meant,” she snapped back before visibly trying to regain control of her emotions. “Bert, what about marriage?”

“A fine and noble institution, to be sure,” he quipped. Her expression warned him that levity would not be appreciated. He leaned forward and grasped her hand, gently pulling her to the chair beside his. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Mary Poppins?”

“Everyone changes,” she said.

He was confused by the non sequitur, as much as by her odd mood. “Well, you haven’t changed,” he said, although now that he looked more closely, there were a few laugh lines around her eyes and some silver threaded through her hair. Mary Poppins had gotten older. How was that possible?

“The wind changed this morning,” she said quietly. “I…couldn't leave."

"What do you mean 'couldn't' leave?" he asked, deeply disturbed by her words.

"I mean I could not leave. The wind changed, I packed my bag, opened my umbrella and…did not leave."

Mary Poppins leaving on the wind was a given, a certainty like the changing of the seasons.

"It's not the first time, Bert. Last year the wind changed three times before I could move on." 

She'd told him once, the second time they'd met, that the end would come when she could no longer travel. 

"Oh, Mary…"

"Frankly I'm surprised it's taken this long. All those families – the children – all the love poured out, well, our kind don't last very long." She drew in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. "We travel on the wind because our hearts are both free and yet filled with love, and it's the love that guides us where we're supposed to be. Do you understand, Bert?"

"I-I'm not sure…"

"As the years went on, it's become more and more difficult to leave until – until I could not."

"So, when the wind changed today, you were not able to fly?"

Mary's answer was cut off by a voice from the door. The umbrella stood upright from where it had been leaning against the wall. "We flew – no trouble there. It's what we do, after all. The problem wasn't in the flying. The problem was we didn't go anywhere except--"

"That's enough out of you," said Mary to the umbrella, interrupting whatever it had been about to say.

"Silence me all you want, but you know what happened. That's why we're here, after all." With that final pronouncement, the umbrella leaned back against the wall, silent and yet somehow watchful.

Bert was confused. "Mary…I have to confess that I'm confused. If you've been able to fly then—"

"I've only had one destination," she said, her voice equal measures frustrated, frightened and hopeful.

He may not be a genius, but he wasn't an idiot, either. "Here? You-you've been coming here." He'd never been more certain of anything.

"Yes, Bert. I can't leave because my – that is to say, I find myself tied here. I take to the air and my heart brings me to you. Never mind the children who need me, it's here I find myself time and again. Well, usually here. There was that time you were in the country and I ended up in the stables."

In the blink of an eye he understood. His restlessness when the wind changed was because of her, because Mary was near. He was elated, but he wasn't quite ready to ask the question again, the question the bright-eyed dreamer had once asked the charming nanny. Not yet, but perhaps one day…

"You are more than welcome to stay," he said. "If you've nowhere else to be, perhaps…well, perhaps we could get reacquainted."

Her look of hope almost broke his heart.

Bert cleared his throat, feeling his own hope struggling to get out. "Now, there's no pressure. There are guest rooms all over, so you can pick the one you want." He grinned, suddenly feeling like a shy school boy. "Who knows, maybe one day…?"

"Oh, yes, Bert, yes. One day – soon, I promise."

It wasn't everything, not yet, but he was satisfied for the moment. While they hadn't quite put everything into words, there was no mistaking the way the future looked brighter. 

He stood up and took her hand. "In that case, welcome to my humble abode," he said, pressing a quick kiss to her fingers. "Welcome home, Mary Poppins."

"Blenkinsopp," she said, gently removing her hand and smoothing down her skirts.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said Blenkinsopp. That's my name."

"Mary Blenkinsopp is your name? I thought it was Mary Poppins."

"It is…in a manner of speaking." She looked a little flustered. "Before I became a nanny, I was always helping out with the neighbours' children. They'd ask if I'd mind popping in for a bit now and again, and before I knew it people referred to my visits as Mary's pop-ins."

"Which became Mary Poppins," laughed Bert.

"Oh, really, Bert. It's not that funny."

"Oh yes it is," he sputtered before giving in to the laughter. She was right, of course, it wasn't really funny, but she was there, with him, and had told him her real name – how could he feel anything other than soul-deep joy. 

He continued laughing until he bumped his head on the ceiling, which startled him but then caused him to laugh harder. His laughter only trailed off when Mary joined him on the ceiling and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. 

"What am I to do with you?" she sighed, holding tight to him as they gradually lowered to the floor.

"Just keep holding on, Mary. That's all I ask."

"I'm not going anywhere, Bert. You have my word."

"Well it's about time," said the exasperated umbrella. It grumbled a bit longer and then went still and silent when the humans paid it no attention.

 

~~End~~


End file.
